Storm at Race Point
Will Cordeiro

A syrup of clouds, a continent of bruises,
amass—encroach; the beach-grass flattened,
flummoxed in the gales.  A darkened truce
between rocks, water, air: false lull that ends
as lighting’s fire erases half the sky—
one instant blinded white.  The gulls sideswiped,
they veer and tack, out-drifting though they try
to swing, but boomerang back past the warped,
lone boat out on the bay, over waves that dump
more bloated cargo on the recluse shore,
the rapture of a nightmare’s psychopomp.
Horizon glooms; rain glitters to the door. 
I shark across the dunes, into my shack
where dreaming whirlpools melt each window, shaken.

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